


Silent Storm

by silver_blacker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_blacker/pseuds/silver_blacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot fluff fic where Sansa seeks Petyr's company in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in the perspective of early(ish) book!Sansa when she first came under the protection of Petyr in the Eyrie, still innocent and still child-like. The working title is the name of a song by Carl Caspen, which in fact its lyrics have almost nothing to do with this fic.

"Who is it?" His tired and raspy voice says.

Sansa could feel her heart racing in her chest. It seems she has woken him. 

_Perhaps it is a bad idea to come._

"It's... Alayne, my lord." She says instead, her new name still foreign and unfamiliar on her tongue. 

The other side of the door is silent. 

Sansa blinks in the dark, holding herself tighter as the suffocating silence drowns her in.

_It is a bad idea to come. I should never have disrupted his sleep. He has duties in the morning and he must be the most displeased by now._

The silence lingers. Sansa is starting to wonder if she should just leave and return to her own chamber when the door is opened in a creak. 

The light pouring in from the room is blinding compared to the complete darkness in the hallway. She shuts her eyes and flinches away.

"I have told them to put some oil lamps in the corridors. My apology, my lady. I promise it shall never happen again." 

"I shouldn't have come so late at night, my lord." Sansa says quietly. Her vision comes back as she gets more used to the light. She sees Littlefinger in his nightwear, standing at the door with darken eyes, his lips curved into a half smile. "Have I disturbed your rest?"

The man chuckles, his hand gradually raised to stroke his chin as if his beard is still there. 

"No, not at all. My lady is never a disturbance." 

Sansa blushes, lowering her gaze onto her feet. She knows he doesn't mean it. She has seen him toying with the lords and ladies in court with his seemingly casual praises and flowery vocabulary. Littlefinger says things to please, as flattering words often come out of his mouth as easily as she could recite the tales of Florian and Jonquil. Still, there is always this hint of sincerity in his tone that leaves her in doubt with her observation, as if there is, even the faintest, genuineness in his speech.

"You must be cold, my lady, wearing that thin nightgown of yours." He reaches out and touches her left shoulder. She almost cringes. "Please, come in." He invites her. 

Sansa solemnly nods. As she steps through the threshold she is instantly met with a warm wave of air. She turns and notices the fire in the grate, bright and blazing like it has been burning for days and nights. 

"I prefer my quarter nice and clement, you see." He comments behind her, latching the door closed. "I am very much a southerner, I am afraid. Cold weather repels me."

_Winterfell is not for you then, my lord_ , Sansa nearly says, but she does not have the courage to even mention her home, remembering it has been burnt down to the ground with her brothers slaughtered in it. 

Littlefinger moves to her side and watches her, his expression shielded and unrevealing. Sansa senses another blush on her cheeks threatening to show, but she couldn't pull her eyes from him. She would not. 

"However..." He whispers, as his gaze roams from her eyes to her mouth. "If the warmth bothers you I could put off the fire." He proposes, his voice small and his lips barely moving. He produces a light smile and fixes his eyes on hers again. 

"That will be unnecessary, my lord." She returns his smile, but her nervousness may have made it look like a weird twitch of her lips. "I have had a taste of the southern summer, and am fully capable of enduring the heat." 

Littlefinger's smile dies down as he tilts his chin forward. A heartbeat later and he beams, his grin mischievous and sudden. 

"I insist." He gives her shoulder a gentle stroke with his palm. "I serve to be more than endurable."

With that he leaves her and walks up to the fireplace. He squats down and picks up a fire poker. "May I inquire about the purpose of my lady's nightly visit?" He twists his neck around and asks, his eyes sharp on hers. 

Sansa tenses up. Her fingers dig into her enclosed palms, drawing a tingly pain. "It's..." She mutters, biting her lower lip. Her reason of coming seems almost stupid now, childish even. She should go back to her bed and pray for morning to come. She composes herself, and lifts up her head, tall and proud, looking down at the small man. "It's nothing, my lord. I shouldn't have interrupted your sleep. If I may now, I would--"

A thunder rumbles in a distance.

Sansa yelps, and covers her ears with her hands. She curls up protectively, her shoulders trembling, her eyes slammed shut. 

"Gods," She hears him say. The fire poker is dropped onto the stone floor in a clank. He walks towards her, his footsteps hasty and light. He puts his hands on her arms, the contact so gentle as if not to startle her. "Does that scare you, my lady?"

She timidly lowers her hands and nods, her breaths still shallow and quick with a tightness in her throat. 

"Poor child." He shakes his head, his tone concerned but with something glinting in his eyes that she dares say has nothing to do with worriment. "Take a seat on my bed. I will make you something to drink that will soothe the uneasiness." 

She obliges. As she moves to the bed, the large double bed that belongs to the Lord Protector of the Vale, she notices the flipped over bed sheets and the messy state of the bedding. So she indeed did wake him up. A sense of guilt slowly creeps up her mind and she turns her head to look at him, unsure.

"Go on, the furniture doesn't bite." He smiles encouragingly at her, while proficiently pulling out two goblets from the wine cabinet. 

She swallows, and shyly sits on the soft feather bed. She has her hands on her knees, still trying to maintain the manner of a lady even with her heart pounding in her chest. As Petyr is pouring the drinks, she allows her gaze to roam around the chamber. The room is big, equipped with its own fireplace and even a dining table. It may rather be too spacious to be the living quarter of one man. Then the realisation that Littlefinger used to share the room with her Aunt Lysa hits her and leaves her breathless. She suddenly feels unsafe at the presence of the man, the man who pushed her aunt through the Moon Door and framed a singe for his crime. However, he did it to protect her didn't he? Sansa is once again conflicted. She shifts uncomfortable on the bed, eying the every movement of Littlefinger. 

He is done with the drinks. He returns and hands her a goblet. Looking inside, she sees the red liquid swaying against the metal container. Skeptical of its content, she creases her brows. 

He laughs. "It's the Dornish Red, sweetling." He pushes the cup into her hands. "It will calm you down, trust me." 

Sansa takes it, still skeptical and unwilling. She looks up at him who is standing arm-length away from her. 

He blinks, his cheerfulness gone as he raises an eyebrow at her. "Wise." He marks, and exchanges his cup with hers. He gulps down the drink. Once he is finished with the liquor she finally deems it safe to take a light sip. The strong sourness of the wine stings her tongue, and she almost has to spit it out. Maintaining a straight face, she forces the burning liquid down her throat and clasps the cup tightly on her laps. 

"Is it not to your liking, my lady?" Petyr asks.

"No, not at all, my lord."

He squints, his mouth forming a teasing smile. 

"Very well." He sits down next to her on the bed. "Storms... Is my lady not accustomed to them?" His fingers toy with his empty goblet for a while, before decided to cast it down onto the floor. 

"We had rain and wind, but mostly just snow," She bows her head and says under her breath, tangling and untangling her fingers on the handle of her cup. "Never lightning or thunder." Her thumbs begin drawing circles on the cool surface of the goblet. It is strange to speak to Peytr about her home. He is a foreigner who has never been to the north before, and yet here he is here to listen. 

"I grew up with your mother in the Riverlands, you know." Petyr stares into a distance, his hand again raising to stroke his chin.  _The chin that Aunt Lysa told him to shave,_  Sansa thinks. "Then, well, I went back to the Fingers later on," He lets out a sneer, a sign of disdain. He mindlessly lowers his hand and starts fidgeting with his collar. Her gaze follows his motion and catches a glimpse of his chest under his loosen night shirt. She is suddenly aware of how little both of them are wearing. She immediately shifts her gaze away as an embarrassing thought invades her mind. "And in my first stay there I had forgotten how scary stony shores are in a typical summer night. Could you imagine, a boy of four-and-ten shivering at night in that little chamber of his, murmuring to the seven gods praying for the storm to pass? But I overcame my fear. And you could as well, my lady." He shoots her a smile, a smile that is the warmest she has seen on him, a smile that makes him look much younger and less calculating, a smile that resembles more of the boy he said he once was.

Another thunder cracks, this time closer and the sound louder. 

Sansa drops the cup and jumps. The wine inside splashes out and damps her feet. But all she could feel is the fear inside her and the involuntary shaking of her body. She whimpers.

"Hush now, my sweet." Petyr catches one of her hands in his and gives it a light squeeze. "It is only a bit of light and noise, nothing else. Think of it as The Sevens are traveling along the Vale, and the Crone keeps dropping her lantern because she is old and blind and keeps on knocking into the other gods." 

Sansa sits back down on the bed and calms her breathing. Petyr's hand is still on hers. His skin is warm and his fingers are slender but firm. She glances at him, and sees the fixed and usual smile on his face. She is tempted to ask him, 'Do you actually still believe in gods?'. She would imagine his most honest answer to be negative. But Littlefinger does not strike her as an earnest man, and she is not prepared to challenge her only companion here in the Eyrie. 

"Better now?" He asks, "My lady must be very grateful that the Eyrie is not located in the Stormlands then."

Sansa giggles. She looks at Petyr, half of his face glowing in the soft lighting of the fire, the other half hidden in the shadow: the two sides of Petyr Baelish, she notes; One is charming and friendly, and the other vicious and immoral. She can never truly tell who is behind the mask. But for  tonight , she has decided it was Petyr her guardian that has opened his door for her.

"Thank you, my lord." She says, feeling more at ease. "I am sorry that I woke you. It's just... I don't know who else to go to." She avoids his eyes and looks down on the ground in the guilt of waking him. "And I have spilled wine all over my feet and your floor. I should clean that up." She motions to stand.

"No, my lady." He pulls her hand lightly. "Rest. You have had a rough night. You could stay here for the night if you wish." He stands up, his eyes still not leaving hers. "Let me fetch you a piece of cloth." 

"Are you sure, my lord?" Sansa asks as he goes in search for a towel. "Then, where will you sleep?" She shoots the bed a nervous glance. He does not intend to share the bed with her, right? It is for sure big enough for them both, but the act itself is highly inappropriate and is often frowned upon, especially since he is not her husband in marriage.  _But no,_  a bitter thought comes up in her mind,  _not even Tyrion has ever slept beside her_ .  _And gods, Aunt Lysa used to sleep in this bed as well_ . She stares at the tidy side of the bed with the bed sheet neatly tucked under the mattress. The woman once threatened to kill her because of an unconventional kiss between her and Petyr. What would her aunt think now, of them sleeping in the same bed together like married couples? Sansa doesn't know whether to be disgusted or to be amused by the notion. 

"I am not tired anymore, my lady. I will be there at my desk shall you need me." Petyr returns with a white cloth. "So rest at ease." He laughs, as if he knows what silly thoughts have been going through her head. 

As Sansa reaches out to take the cloth Petyr kneels in front of her and holds her feet in his hands. She widens her eyes, surprised by his action. He removes her shoes and begins wiping her feet. The way he runs the cloth over her skin is so gentle as if he is cleaning a delicate art piece. She wishes to speak up, and say it was too kind of him to offer but she could do the cleaning herself. But she is speechless. She could feel the redness on her cheeks and the room is suddenly too warm for her. She fidgets on the bed, not sure where to look. 

"All done." He looks back up and smiles at her, after perhaps a lifetime or a blink of an eye. "Go on and sleep now, sweetling. I will take care of the spillage." 

Sansa moves towards the head of the bed, and decides to sleep on Petyr's side. The idea of sleeping on where her Aunt Lysa used to sleep on is slightly horrifying. She crawls under the sheet, and watches as he drops the cloth into the basin. The pillow smells of him. 

"Good night," He comes up beside her and says, his voice soft and almost vulnerable. "Sansa." He leans forward and lays a brief kiss on her forehead. 

It all happened too fast, but the contact is lost as soon as it is made. She blinks, her heart racing. Petyr has already started moving to the desk. 

"Sleep, my lady." He says softly while sitting down on his chair. He picks up a quill and turns his head towards her to give her a comforting smile. "I will be right here." 

Sansa wraps the blanket around her and shuts her eyes, inhaling the scent of Petyr Baelish. The boom of a thunder is heard, but she doesn't even twitch. She could hear the cracking of firewood in the grate, and the scratching of Petyr's quill on a piece of a paper. Slowly, Sansa drifts away into a dreamless slumber.


End file.
